The fields of poetry
are of arid exuberance.
In that exile, beneath the absolute sun,
we the blind walk in the sharp-edged
shadow of the word.
And out of that opaque, transcendent shadow
all images arise,
beyond the symbol,
beyond the form,
beyond the colour,
beyond the vestments and the masks.
We walk alone
along the virginal path
made fertile by the footsteps.

Flowers in Minefields, p. 13